Shadow of the Raven

by Tessa Harris

  “What do you make of that?” he asked the constable.

  Taking the glass, Harker deliberated for a moment before giving his verdict. “ ’Tis a flake of flint, or steel, Dr. Silkstone,” he concluded.

  Thomas nodded.

  “Precisely,” he agreed before returning once more to the eyeball, which sat forlornly in the dish. The eye, he knew, purported to be the window into a man’s soul, but this specimen, thought Thomas, went even further. It was a window onto Charlton’s recent past, for embedded within its gelatinous layers it contained not only what appeared to be a particle of steel, but a fiber of felt, too.

  “And this, Mr. Harker, if I’m not much mistaken, is wadding.”

  The constable shook his head. “What are you saying, Dr. Silkstone?”

  Suddenly Thomas realized that he had said too much already. He had been thinking out loud, something that was not judicious in the circumstances.

  “An anatomist’s indulgence.” He shrugged. “I fear I digress,” he said, returning to Charlton’s corpse.

  Next he examined to the dead man’s left wrist, which had been bandaged. Thomas recalled that in court the chainman had claimed he had been attacked. He wondered if the injury had been sustained when he resisted giving the brigands his pocket watch, although he had not noticed the dressing at the time. But no, the scarring was too precise, too deliberate. There was no doubt in Thomas’s mind; the wrist had been deliberately slit to sever the radial artery.

  Suddenly it all made sense. The young man’s agitated mental state, the lungs full of water and debris, the blood coming from the inner auditory canal and nose, indicating hemorrhaging, and finally the cut artery. All these were indications that while in an unstable mental condition, James Charlton deliberately took his own life by jumping from a height into the river. He could even envisage the place above the gorge in Raven’s Wood that was most likely his launching ground.

  Thomas thanked Harker and dismissed him. He needed time alone to think. Charlton’s body had spoken to him, although what it had told him was of such a momentous nature that he wanted to be entirely sure of the facts before he confided in anyone. It seemed that in death this corpse had revealed what the chainman himself refused to acknowledge in life. Corroboration of this theory would, of course, be needed, but he knew it would be possible to obtain.

  Chapter 53

  Once again Thomas rode up Boughton’s drive. He was anxious to inform Lupton of Charlton’s autopsy findings as soon as possible. Howard came out to greet him on the steps as Will Lovelock appeared to see to his horse. The doctor dismounted and acknowledged the apologetic bow from Howard.

  “Mr. Lupton has instructed me to tell you he has no wish to receive your report, Dr. Silkstone,” the butler told him with a look of embarrassment.

  It was just as Thomas had feared. The steward wished to deprive him of the chance to face his adversaries once more. He took a deep breath and shook his head.

  “Then he is in luck,” replied Thomas.

  “Sir?” replied a puzzled Howard.

  “I have not committed my findings to paper yet, so I am able to deliver them to your master verbally,” he said.

  The butler opened his mouth in a halfhearted attempt to protest, but Thomas barged past him and headed straight for the study door. Bursting in, he found Lupton seated at the desk. Looking up, the steward smiled wryly, as if he had anticipated the intrusion. He leaned back in his chair.

  “Silkstone.” His eyes latched on to Thomas. “You really are too trying. If you come with one of your reports, I am not interested. Adam Diggott is in my custody.”

  Thomas glowered at the man, so at ease in Lydia’s seat, like a cuckoo in another’s nest. “How can you be so sure that the coppicer is your man?”

  Lupton let out a laugh. “Come. Come,” he chided. “Any fool can see he has the motive. Charlton witnessed Diggott shoot Turgoose.”

  Thomas shrugged. “I’ll admit it is very convenient, but ’tis not what happened.”

  Suddenly the smile was wiped from the steward’s face. “Oh?”

  The anatomist nodded. “I believe I know how Mr. Charlton died.”

  Lupton snorted through flared nostrils. “So do I! By Diggott’s hand.”

  “Not so,” countered Thomas.

  The steward narrowed his eyes. “Do you expect a jury to believe your science over the hard evidence?”

  Thomas was quick to correct him. “Evidence that is circumstantial. The fact that both men were in the woods last night proves nothing.”

  Without standing on the usual courtesies, the doctor made his way to the window and looked out over the lawns.

  Lupton watched him with a frown. “Well, man?”

  Thomas remained facing the window. “Yes, I do know how he died, but, more importantly, I believe I know why.”

  He heard the scrape of Lupton’s chair on the polished wooden floor as he rose and walked toward him. Thomas wheeled ’round.

  “You must think me most foolish,” he challenged.

  Again there was a wry smile from Lupton, only this time it was followed by a mocking laugh. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Silkstone,” he replied, standing by the mantelpiece.

  “You see, in life Charlton may have been able to keep his secret, but in death, it has been divulged.”

  Thomas’s words caused the steward to furrow his brow.

  “I do not follow you.”

  The doctor fixed Lupton in the eye. “There was no ambush in the woods, was there? No attack by highwaymen.”

  The steward held his nerve and adopted a look of puzzlement. “What are you talking about, man? Of course there was. Adam Diggott and his gang killed Turgoose and now he has killed Charlton, too.”

  “And that would suit your purpose, would it not?” inquired Thomas, but he did not wait for an answer. Instead he called Lupton’s bluff.

  “I now know what you and Sir Montagu have known all along.”

  The steward swallowed hard and leaned an elbow on the mantelshelf, assuming an air of self-confidence. “And that is?”

  “It was James Charlton who fired the pistol. He killed his master.”

  “Hah!” Lupton’s response was a cross between a snort and a laugh. For a moment he remained silently smirking, until his composure cracked. He stood upright and tugged at his waistcoat. “You cannot prove it,” he snapped.

  Thomas was happy to volunteer the proof. On a nearby table, he opened his medical case and retrieved a glass phial containing his evidence.

  “I removed fragments of metal and linen from Charlton’s eye. They only need to match the remnants I found in Turgoose’s wounds.” He felt quietly triumphant, but there was little joy in his victory. “That was why Charlton killed himself, was it not? He shot his master, but a public confession would not suit your purpose. You needed to pin the blame on the villagers so the law would deal with them, teach them a lesson. Boughton will not tolerate any opposition to enclosure. That was why you kept the chainman here, a virtual prisoner. You did not want him to tell the truth, to take the blame, so you concocted a story about footpads stealing his pocket watch and planted it, together with the pistol, in the Diggotts’ cottage.”

  “Such fantasy!” snorted Lupton.

  Thomas persisted. “Charlton couldn’t live with the guilt, could he? He’d tried to slit his wrists after Abe Diggott’s trial. But it was the massacre of the villagers that was the final straw. He felt responsible for the deaths of three innocent people and so he threw himself into the river.” He replaced the phial in his case and turned again to face the steward. “What I don’t understand is why he murdered Turgoose.”

  “And you never shall,” muttered Lupton, his attention drawn by sudden movement outside the window.

  Thomas frowned. “What did you just say?”

  Lupton rose, went to the door, and opened it. “I said you never shall understand,” he repeated, the familiar disdain tempering his voice.

  As he
held open the door, a messenger entered. “You have the charge?” asked the steward.

  The courier gave a shallow bow and held up a piece of parchment. “I do, sir,” he replied.

  Lupton allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation. “Excellent. Then we can proceed. See that it is delivered to the governor of Oxford Jail, along with the prisoner.”

  The messenger bowed and within a second was gone.

  Thomas shook his head in disbelief. “Have you not heard a word of what I have been saying? There was no murder. The coppicer is innocent.” There was a note of exasperation in his tone. “Charlton killed himself.”

  Lupton shook his head and clicked his tongue. “I doubt the judge will agree when he sees Adam Diggott stand before him and hears how he tried to evade arrest.”

  Thomas’s eyes widened. “So, he is to be charged with Charlton’s murder as well as Turgoose’s.”

  “There is a pleasing symmetry to it, is there not?” said the steward, walking over to the fireplace.

  “But you know he is innocent,” Thomas protested. “Not only can I prove that Charlton killed himself; I can prove he killed Turgoose, too, and you know it!”

  Yet Lupton refused to be drawn in. He threw Thomas a scornful look. “Save your theories for the courtroom, Silkstone. Adam Diggott and his co-conspirators are as good as dead already,” he said, reaching for the bell cord. Howard appeared almost instantaneously. “Show Dr. Silkstone out, will you?”

  For an instant Thomas considered refusing to leave until he had been heard, but he was forced to silently acknowledge any defiance would be futile. Instead, he simply nodded. He would have to rely on his scientific findings to reveal the truth. “I shall see you in court in Oxford, Lupton,” he said.

  Chapter 54

  News of the gruesome discovery at the fulling mill had spread quickly. It was soon added by village gossips to the canon that included the trial of so many Brandwick men and Adam Diggott’s murder charge.

  “Working hard again tonight, Dr. Silkstone?” Mistress Geech inquired with a glint in her eye.

  Thomas had just agreed with the landlady to pay extra for the privilege of a spermaceti candle instead of the usual tallow. Yet her flirtatiousness did nothing to lighten the prospect of the coming hours spent writing James Charlton’s postmortem report. The standard inn candles, which smoked and guttered, were an added irritation that he could well do without.

  “I fear so,” he replied. He thought she held on to the shaft of the wax candle as she handed it to him over the counter a little longer than was strictly necessary.

  “Would you like your meal in your room?” she asked, cocking her head. “Cook’s made a lovely mutton stew.”

  “I would like that very much,” Thomas replied with a smile. He knew she meant well.

  He found his room quite stuffy. The warmer weather left the upper-story rooms often much warmer than downstairs, and he immediately flung open the windows to take in a good lungful of air. Holding his arms out wide, he stretched and breathed deeply. It had been a day of tragedy and of revelation, but it was not yet over. His inkstand remained on his desk, and he was just summoning up the energy to embark upon his postmortem report when he heard a tap at the door.

  Opening it wide, he saw Molly, holding a tray of victuals. He smiled at her and bade her enter, although he noticed she seemed even more reticent than usual. She did not return his greeting, and her eyes planted themselves on the floor. She walked purposefully toward Thomas’s table and set down her cargo carefully and deliberately, lingering longer over the laying of the cutlery than was usual or necessary.

  Noting her behavior, Thomas attracted her eye. Lowering his face to hers, he asked, “Is something troubling you, Molly?”

  He saw the girl’s small bosom heave as she took a deep breath and turned her gaze on him.

  “There is something, Doctor,” she acknowledged. “I think ’tis you I must tell.”

  “Tell me what?”

  Her eyes now met Thomas’s, and she delved into her apron pocket to produce what looked like a sealed letter.

  “I think you best have this, sir,” she said, handing it over.

  Thomas reached for the knife on the nearby table and broke the seal.

  Molly watched him, twisting her apron. “The mapmaker’s man gave it to me, see. I told him I wasn’t good at letters, but he said if anything happened to him, I was to ask someone I trusted to read it. And now he’s gone . . .” She bit her lip. “I know I can trust you, Doctor, can’t I?”

  Thomas lifted the letter to the window to catch the last of the light and read the few lines of script quickly.

  “You can trust me, Molly,” he replied, looking up from the letter. His body was suddenly stiff with shock. “You have done the right thing. You have saved a man’s life.”

  The trial of Adam Diggott for the murders of Jeffrey Turgoose, master surveyor, and, in a separate incident, James Charlton, his assistant, was to be held the next day at Oxford assizes.

  Thomas set off for the city from the Three Tuns at first light, armed with Charlton’s letter. His horse, however, had fallen lame and he had been forced to stop in Headington, just on the outskirts of Oxford, to have the mare reshod. He therefore arrived a few minutes after the proceedings had started and walked in just in time to see Seth Talland, the guard, take the witness stand.

  Once again, the courtroom was packed with the flotsam and jetsam of the city, together with members of the legal fraternity. The same judge, His Honor Judge Dubarry, was presiding. Thomas was not sure if that was to Diggott’s advantage. He saw Lupton, too, who returned a thunderous scowl as soon as he clapped eyes on Thomas.

  An uneasy silence settled on the assembled crowd as Seth Talland began his testimony. Looking bullish, his shovel hands clasping the stand as confidently as a vicar in his pulpit, he repeated the same fabrication he had concocted for Abe Diggott’s trial. Once more Thomas found himself forced to listen to his well-rehearsed litany of lies. Talland related how he and the surveyors had been separated when their packhorse fell, whinnying, into a pit, and how Turgoose had checked to see what the tumult was and then returned to the clearing. Seconds later Talland had joined him, only to find himself witnessing a vicious attack. He saw four men demand Charlton hand over any valuables. Initially he refused, but when they hit him in the face, injuring his eye, he handed over his pocket watch. When, however, they asked the same of Charlton’s master, he refused. Instead Turgoose pulled out a pistol and pointed it at the varlets. There was a struggle. In this version of events, it was Abe Diggott who wrested the weapon from the surveyor, while Adam snatched it from him and shot the surveyor point-blank.

  The prizefighter’s delivery had been fluent. The same prosecutor, the ruthless Martin Bradshaw, had not interrupted him once, and by the looks on the jurors’ faces, his account of the incident seemed wholly plausible. Thomas, however, had every faith that he would soon put paid to any credibility the guard had with the jury.

  As soon as Talland had stepped down from the witness stand, Thomas approached the clerk and handed him Charlton’s letter. In a low voice he told him it was vital evidence and must be presented to the court immediately. The clerk, scanning the paper, concurred, and a moment later the missive was set before the judge himself.

  “The court will adjourn,” said Dubarry, reaching for his gavel.

  In the judge’s chamber, Thomas explained how he had come across the letter and how Molly Trott, the serving girl at the Three Tuns, was waiting in the courtroom. She was, he said, prepared to testify as to how the missive came to be in her possession and Charlton’s parting words to her before he walked up to Raven’s Wood on that fateful day.

  Once again the judge called the court to order, and the meek and diffident girl from the tavern reluctantly took the witness stand. Once the formalities were over, Judge Dubarry announced that new evidence had come to light. He fluttered Charlton’s letter in the air.

  “Tell us how you ca
me by this, pray tell, Miss er . . .” The judge squinted at his notes. “Miss Trott.”

  As she looked about at her hushed audience, Thomas feared the maid would buckle under the glare of their hostile stares. She licked her cracked lips and shifted nervously, but he managed to catch her eye and gave her a smile, which seemed to reassure her and confirm her purpose.

  “It were when they was taking the men away, sir,” she began.

  The judge frowned. “You must be more specific, Miss Trott,” he told her.

  She returned a quizzical look.

  “Which men?” he asked.

  She gave a little nod to signify that she had understood the question.

  “It were after the village men that were accused of riot came back from Oxford,” she said. There was no emotion in her voice. “Everyone were outside to greet ’em, and Mr. Geech—”

  The judge stopped her. “Mr. Geech is . . . ?”

  “My master, sir, the landlord at the Three Tuns. He tells me to go outside and take some gin to the men, on the ’ouse, like. So I goes, and then I see the soldiers come again to take them away. And there was panic and while I’m watching ’em, Mr. Charlton comes up to me.”

  Again Judge Dubarry interrupted. “How did you know it was Mr. Charlton?”

  Molly, turning her head to face the judge, replied, “Mr. Charlton and his master were staying with us, sir, while they made their maps. Mr. Charlton always showed me great kindness.”

  “I see. Carry on,” instructed Dubarry.

  “So Mr. Charlton, he seems distracted and upset when he sees the redcoats back, and he comes up to me and hands me the letter.”

  “And what did he say to you?”

  “He says, ‘Molly, if anything should happen to me, then you’re to give this to someone you trust.’ I says, ‘Sir? Is something wrong?’ And he looks at me real strange and says, ‘I’m going to put it right.’ ”

  Her recollection hung on the stale courtroom air for a moment, until Judge Dubarry asked, “And what happened next?”